For the Wretched of the Earth
by Deep Forest Green
Summary: One time Cosette dishonored Valjean, one time Valjean dishonored Cosette, and one time they honored each other.


There was the time they went for a walk.

"Papa, look at that dirty beggar!" Cosette said scornfully, pointing at the homeless man standing across the street with his hat in hand. "He's so stinky I can smell him from over here. Hasn't he ever heard of shaving? He looks like a wild animal! These beggars are the scum of Paris; there should be a law against them begging from decent people like us."

Valjean pulled her aside and slapped her. Hard, across the face. He couldn't help himself; everything she had just said made his blood boil.

"Cosette, take back everything you just said this instant," he commanded.

Cosette began to cry. He had never slapped her before.

"I'm sorry," she said automatically. "I didn't mean it. It's just- I can't stand it when I see these filthy, indecent people littering our streets. I hate this city. I wish we were back in the convent, where people actually had manners and morals."

"We can go back to the convent if you want, missy," he told her threateningly. "I moved us out of there for your sake and I can move us back. All you have to do is make another remark like the one you just made. Honestly, I thought the sisters had taught you better. Christian charity, love, kindness- but I guess it just doesn't get through if you're walled off and never see them."

"See who?"

"The wretched, for lack of a better word. The poor and starving. They exist everywhere, they always have, and they're no less human than we are. What's happened to them could happen to any of us, with just one bad decision or stroke of awful luck."

"I doubt it," Cosette replied, looking at them bum again. "He just looks so...different."

Hmm, she thought; when she put it that way, it didn't seem to make any sense at all. Maybe Papa is right. But what would he know about it?

He sighed. "It's my fault. I spoiled you. I made you forget who you are and where you came from. I never told you about- " he broke off. "Forgive me for slapping you. I never should have done that. It's good that you speak your mind; I encourage it. But one way or another, this is a situation that needs to be remedied. I know that you are a compassionate young woman, and you don't really hate Paris. You just need to see its other side."

It was then that they began their weekly visits to the infirmaries in St. Michel. Valjean was wary of the danger that awaited vulnerable young ladies there, but he was confident in his abilities to protect her; and as long as he was beside her, he knew no harm would come to her, because it would fall on him. And it was there, and then, that they met the most wretched family, in the most wretched hovel, on the most wretched block in all of Paris; and they called themselves the Fabantous.

* * *

There was the time that Cosette got a paper-cut.

She had been reading her favorite book, _Pride and Prejudice_, when her index finger slipped and cut a deep gash just below her nail. It was bloody and hurt sharply every time she tried to bend the finger. She rushed into her father's room while he was praying and asked him to bandage it for her. There was a dreadful moment of silence as he glared at her from the foot of his bed, then sheer terror when he exploded.

"You are fifteen years old, far old enough to bandage your cuts yourself!" he bellowed, standing up in a fury. "A paper cut is nothing, you spoiled, stupid, naïve child! Do you have any idea the kinds of wounds you would have suffered if I'd left you with the Thénardiers? Do you have any idea the kinds of wounds I've suffered? Do you know what it's like to be whipped, beaten, branded with a hot iron? No one bandaged me when it was all over! No one took me in and loved me as his own! No one- " He stopped short and looked back at the bed, because he realized that that last part wasn't true. He hastily acknowledged the candlesticks, picking them up in a quick swoop of his arms and placing them on top of the dresser. "Go to your room," he whispered densely, looking away.

Cosette ran into her room, lay on her bed and cried. She knew she was spoiled, but she had at least always had the comfort that her father thought her perfect no matter what she did. But now she realized that something was going to have to change. She had forgotten her paper cut; her father's words had stung her worse than any paper could. She wished he had just slapped her the way other parents did.

Meanwhile, her father was on his knees again in his room, weeping just as hard. Not only had he revealed everything he had tried so hard to keep from her, but he had made her run sobbing from him, after he had sworn he would never do anything to harm her. And yet, the fact remained that she was slipping away from him. What if he couldn't turn her into a decent person through normal means, without showing her the hardships he had been through and manipulating her love for him to make her care? No, it wasn't manipulating, he reasoned, but you can't _make_ someone feel compassion for others. He looked at the candlesticks again. Maybe you could.

He came into her room a few minutes later, after gathering up his strength from God. He apologized profusely, washed off her finger and kissed the bandaged spot. He cradled her as if she were a young child, and he whispered into her chestnut hair vows that nothing like this would ever happen again. Tears streamed down both of their cheeks, and it was nearly midnight when she fell asleep in his arms. He laid her down gently and made one final sign of the cross to beg forgiveness from God.

"But," he told her softly as he closed the door behind him, "don't think this means I didn't mean what I said before."

* * *

There was the time when her father lay dying.

"Cosette," he whispered weakly, "come closer to me and listen. In the first spot you find, that is where I want to be buried. No name on my tombstone. Names are evil to me. Every name I have ever had has been a lie. I do not want to be remembered as a name, I want to be remembered as what I am- was- to you."

"No, papa," she insisted, her face glistening with tears. "After everything you've done- that is, now that Marius and I know the truth- we'll make sure the whole world knows about you. We'll take this money and have them erect statues of you, declare a national holiday in your honor, create a charitable foundation in your name. Your real name. Jean Valjean. Well- " she looked at her husband- "maybe one in your name and the names of Les Amis."

"That is all very well, Cosette," said her father. "But it would do me far more honor if you were to simply keep me in your heart."

She nodded, her face twisted in grief. Keep him in her heart? Was that all? She could do that without trying.

"There has to be something more," she insisted. "I can't just let your memory be...erased. Sanded over. Forgotten. Lost in the winds of time." God, why did he have to be so humble all the time? Even now. Especially now. It was a blessing and a curse.

"You are a poetess, child," he told her. "I would have a blank tombstone, but if you would like, you may commemorate me with a few lines of your own composition...that is all. Choose your words carefully, as I have chosen mine." Here he handed her his letter and, with his hand outstretched, died.

How could she write poetry when her world had just shattered?

She discovered that perhaps it was the only time when she could write poetry.

It broke her heart, but she obeyed his last request.


End file.
